


Summer Skeletons

by enigma731



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Avengers Remix, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Gen, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mission Fic, Moral Ambiguity, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha keeps her back to the wall as she watches the killer emerge, masked and dressed all in black. The posture is unmistakable, though, the almost regal set of Captain America’s shoulders, and the flash of blond hair retreating under the street lights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Skeletons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinkonokokoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Just Until You're Safe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/567901) by [shinkonokokoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro). 



> For [Avengers Remix](http://avengers-remix.livejournal.com/). I was fascinated by [shinkonokokoro’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro) development of Steve from his very clear-cut morals into someone who feels the need to kill preemptively to protect the people he loves. Love and the risk of loss are some of my favorite themes to explore in writing, so thank you for the opportunity to do that in a way that’s different from what I’ve tackled before! 
> 
> Huge thank yous to [andibeth82](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82) and [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander) for beta and support.

Natasha isn’t looking when she makes the discovery, which seems typical, really. The S.H.I.E.L.D.briefing makes her think the job is simple enough--which probably ought to be her first red flag. It’s a local surveillance op in the city, a few days’ work at most, not even complex enough for her to take backup along. The target is a man named Earl Brown, who seems to fancy himself the next Justin Hammer. They think he’s running an illegal weapons lab out of his warehouse, and S.H.I.E.L.D. is looking to nip that brand of stupidity in the bud. 

The warehouse isn’t exactly well-concealed or high security, and Natasha is already irritated with the job by the time she makes her way up to the roof of the adjacent building, the black leather of her suit melting into the tar of the shingles in the failing evening light. At first she thinks she’ll probably need to get closer, but the windows afford her a decent enough view through her scope to begin. 

Brown’s business officially operates behind the front of developing new medical technology, a facade the staff seems pretty comfortable with, judging by the way they’re working in plain view right now. There _is_ something ingenious about that strategy, Natasha has to admit--better to let the world see earnest men in labcoats looking busy, much less suspicious than an apparently-vacant facility or one with the windows boarded up. She spends a few minutes watching a young man in white gloves solder components together as the sun finishes dropping below the horizon, the evening gloom making the sparks thrown by his work look almost blindingly bright. 

There’s nothing immediately identifiable as weapons tech, she thinks, as she scans the room, but she’s still willing to bet it’s there somewhere, willing to bet S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intel is correct. It’s almost a sixth sense, the way her stomach tightens ever so slightly as she observes the activity in the warehouse below, a gut instinct that there’s more beneath the surface. 

She’s just begun considering points of entry, the best way to slip in unseen, when the view through her scope shifts and everything changes. The white coats freeze in an almost-uniform motion, all of them turning spooked looks toward a door at the back of the facility in a way that reminds Natasha of a flock of pigeons preparing for flight. She sees why a moment later--a thick-muscled silhouette slips into the room with speed that someone a little less familiar with monsters and aliens might think impossible. The intruder meets with the first of the workers, snapping the smaller man’s neck with a single headlock and impressive speed before moving on to the rest. By the time the third dead body has hit the floor, Natasha’s mind has put it together-- _this_ must be the vigilante they’ve been after, the invisible man who’s been doing their jobs for them. 

Sitting up, Natasha adjusts her scope to get a wider view of the room, of the fight that’s unfolding alarmingly fast. Brown’s staff doesn’t stand a chance, their bodies falling like dominoes in a gale force wind. The dark ghost takes them down like it isn’t even an effort, and there’s something in those movements that makes Natasha’s stomach drop, a terrible familiarity she spends a few breaths trying to dispel. It’s in the smoothness and speed of the silhouette’s movements, the preternatural grace in fighting, the forearm raised like a shield. Her heart is in her throat by the time it’s over, as she scrambles down from her vantage point to watch the figure retreating into the night. 

She keeps her back to the wall as she watches the man emerge, masked and dressed all in black. The posture is unmistakable, though, the almost regal set of Captain America’s shoulders, and the flash of blond hair retreating under the street lights.

* * *

The S.H.I.E.L.D. office where Natasha has her seldom-used cubicle is nearly deserted by the time she makes her way back. She chose not to abandon the job in pursuit of the vigilante, to take advantage of the devastation at the warehouse and find the weapons she came to investigate. They’re there, as suspected, the prototypes housed in the heart of the facility, where nobody could stumble on them by mistake. Brown’s been experimenting with a variety of stolen Hammer and Stark tech, most of it outdated and dangerously unstable. He’s dead now, though; she identified his body among the carnage, called the wetworks team to come do the rest of the clean up on this job. 

Natasha taps the touchscreen monitor at her desk, pulls the microchip she uses for records clearance from the chain around her neck and slips it into the machine before scanning her thumbprint. She’ll have to write a full report on this op, she knows, though she hasn’t done anything but sit back and watch. But her mind’s not on that now, not with what she’s just witnessed. Typing in another access code, she runs a search pull up all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s information on the mysterious killings they've attributed to the man she saw, the case report windows cascading down like they’re building a wall across the bottom of her screen. She’s been working on this case for weeks, without any progress. 

It’s unthinkable, at first glance, that Steve could be the masked man in black, could be the one responsible for such ruthless brutality, for all of the snapped necks and shattered skulls that have been piling up on the streets. He’d flat-out denied having any involvement or even knowledge when Fury asked them all weeks ago. Then again, there is a sort of logic to it -- all of the deceased have been involved in some sort of unseemly activity, the sort of scum with rap sheets as impressive as the marks Natasha takes on her own private jobs. The secrecy is the part that doesn’t fit, though, the anonymous killing when she knows Steve would have been perfectly capable of containing and arresting the creeps to receive the sort of fair trial Captain America is supposed to represent. 

Glancing through the files again, the pattern begins to stand out. The Wrecking Crew, she remembers, posed a direct threat to the Avengers and should have been a challenge they’d taken on as a team. The Mandarin had been gunning for Tony, but as far as Natasha knows, only S.H.I.E.L.D. had that information. The presence of Stark tech in Brown’s operation seals it in her mind, though, brings back the memory of Clint’s concerns about Steve’s behavior, about the way he’s been treating Tony like a porcelain doll. 

It’s personal, she thinks, and that’s the most alarming thing of all.

* * *

Steve is in the living room when Natasha returns to the mansion, and for a moment she wonders whether he’s waiting for her, whether he felt her eyes on his back leaving the warehouse. He’s wearing a t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, looking sleepy while watching a rerun of CSI on the latest giant television Tony’s installed. It’s a little unnerving, given what she’s just witnessed, the revelation making the room feel off-balance as the emotional part of her mind struggles to catch up with the facts. She pauses in the doorway for a moment, listening to the rest of the house, making sure that no one is approaching.

“JARVIS,” she says quietly, when she’s sure they’re otherwise alone. “Give us some privacy, please.”

“Of course, Ms. Romanoff,” comes the crisp voice, as Steve looks up at her with his brow furrowed in unknowing concern. Natasha knows there’s always that chance that their conversation will be recorded anyway, but she’s worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to accept that nothing in her life is truly a secret.

“We need to talk,” says Natasha, moving to sit in the recliner opposite his place on the couch, which allows her to stay between Steve and the doorway. She doesn’t think he’ll attack her, not really, but right now he’s an unknown, a wildcard, and the tactical part of her mind isn’t about to forget that.

Steve sits up, scoops the remote off the coffee table and mutes the TV, where a character whose name Natasha has never bothered to learn is explaining that the pattern of blood spatter is physically impossible. “Okay. I’m all ears.”

“I was on a job for S.H.I.E.L.D. tonight,” says Natasha, keeping her voice carefully devoid of emotion. “Investigating a weapons lab in Brooklyn. Ring a bell?”

“Why would it?” He shrugs, the look of earnest confusion on his face sending a little chill down the back of her neck. Natasha is used to deception, used to assuming the worst and trusting no one, but somehow seeing it from _Steve_ of all people is still surprisingly disheartening. 

“I got to watch our vigilante in action,” she presses, watching his reaction. He isn’t practiced at this yet, and the set of his shoulders changes under her scrutiny, the muscles in his jaw tightly corded as his gaze collapses downward. “I know it’s you, Steve.”

For a moment he gapes at her, mouth open like a drowning man, before his face hardens again. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Two months ago, I would have said the same thing,” says Natasha, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Captain America, murdering people in cold blood? That’s a satire headline, right? But I _saw_ you, Steve. I saw the way you fought. Nobody else moves like you. And you’ve been acting off for weeks. Clint saw you lose it with Molecule Man. We _all_ saw what you did to the Mandarin.”

This time Steve says nothing, just levels his gaze back at her across the room. He’s always known the power of silence, the power of simply standing firm in conviction.

“I _know_ it’s you,” she repeats. “The question is why? You could have brought them in, let them go to trial instead. You could have let the rest of us help. We’re your _team_ , Steve. We all put our lives on the line for each other. What makes you different all of a sudden? What makes you better than that?”

“I had to be sure,” he says quietly, his jaw set. 

“Sure of what?” she presses, though she’s relatively certain she already knows. 

“They were killers,” says Steve. “If I’d fought them in the War, I would have eliminated them without question. Those would have been my orders. I don’t see why it can’t be that simple today.”

“That might be true,” says Natasha, still searching his face. “But it’s not the real reason.” She remembers what she saw in the files, the link that made this painfully close to home. She doesn’t want to interrogate Steve, she realizes, doesn’t want to make this that sort of game. “You did it because you thought they might be gunning for Tony. Because you wanted to protect him.”

She expects her words to land hard, to cut like one of her knives. They don’t, though, his gaze all steel as he looks up at her. 

“I had to be sure,” Steve says again, more resolutely now. “They wanted to hurt him. I can’t let that happen.”

“So you killed them,” Natasha repeats. “You killed them without giving _him_ a choice.”

“You have no idea,” Steve says slowly, his voice icy. “You have no _idea_ what it’s like, losing everyone you love. Losing them because _you_ were supposed to protect them and you couldn’t. I am not letting that happen again. You want to turn me in? Go ahead. But I’m not going to stop.”

Natasha stays seated as he stands and leaves the room, his movements measured precision.

* * *

Steve finds her the next morning, stretching at the barre against the wall in her custom-built training room. She doesn’t hear him enter, but she feels his eyes against her back, makes the deliberate decision to finish her form before slowly turning to look at him. He’s still in his pajamas, though it doesn’t look like he’s slept at all. 

“I don’t appear to have been arrested yet,” he says quietly, and she thinks she can hear an undercurrent of doubt in his voice for the first time. “Is this a game?”

“No,” says Natasha. “I’m just not sure whether I need to do anything yet.”

He crosses the room toward her, and she straightens, meeting his gaze as if she might be able to match his height. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I do understand killing to protect the people you love,” she says evenly. “And I also understand killing those who deserve to die.”

“Then what was last night about?” asks Steve. “Intimidation?”

“No.” Natasha sighs, crossing her arms. “It’s about the fact that there’s a difference between being a _killer_ and being a _murderer_. I’m not sure you know that. And I’m not sure which you are, yet.”

Steve deflates a little further at that, and she sees for the first time how the lives he’s taken are still weighing on him, how he hasn’t quite shed all sense of guilt, yet. “So how do you draw that line?”

“Killing is a necessity in my line of work,” says Natasha. “It’s a skill, a tool. But just like any other skill, you have to know when to use it. If you’re not going to subscribe to society’s moral code--that killing is wrong--then you’ve got to have one of your own. And you’ve got to stick to it, or you’re no better than they are. The lives you’re taking might as well be yours.”

“And your code?” he asks. “I know you take jobs on your own time. Not for the Avengers or for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“It’s really not that complicated.” She presses her lips together in a tight line. “It’s a cost-benefit analysis. Does the death prevent more harm than it causes? Can I be certain? If yes, then the kill is justified. If not--if there’s _any_ doubt, then it’s not a risk I can take. It’s a slippery slope. It’s too easy to become a monster.”

He studies her for a moment. “Eliminate the threat, but first be certain that the threat is real.”

“Exactly.” She takes a breath. “I’m not sure you know how to make that kind of decision when Tony’s life could be at stake. Being in love makes people stupid.”

Steve nods once, curtly. “Will you teach me?”

“Yes,” says Natasha. “But you have to know that it’s your responsibility, in the end. The blood’s on your hands. And if you fail to control yourself, if you become the threat, I will take action.”

“Good,” he says, with surprising certainty. “Then we’ll need to start tonight.”

“Meet me here,” she agrees, wondering suddenly whether a part of him is glad, whether it’s a relief knowing his power is not without bounds. “After dinner.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just nods again and heads for the exit.

“Steve?” she calls, an afterthought as he retreats.

He pauses in the doorway, his face an open question.

“If you love Tony, he really needs to know. This isn’t the sort of secret a relationship can take.” Natasha doesn’t volunteer how she knows this, and he doesn’t ask.

* * *

Standing on the roof of the mansion, Natasha watches Steve’s silhouette vanish into the night under the new moon. He’s off to kill, she knows, off to make the world a little safer for his fledgling relationship. It’s an illusion, that he’ll be able to make any sort of real difference, one that’s achingly familiar to her.

She won’t turn him in, not tonight, and not ever. She’ll be there watching, though, there as a shield between him and the rest of the world, between this twisted sense of justice and the true depths of insanity.

And she’ll be ready, if he slips further, if he loses sight of even the new code she’s giving him, like he's lost who Captain America was supposed to be. She’ll be ready if he becomes a target of her own, a danger in the shadows for her to eliminate.


End file.
